


Go with the Flow

by starsinursa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Arguing, Bickering, Biting, Castiel's thick thighs in jogging shorts, Comfortably Bisexual Dean Winchester, Dean sucks at yoga and it's hilarious, Family Feels, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Locker Room, M/M, Mention of Minor Character Death, Pining, Yoga, gratuitous descriptions of Castiel's delicious hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-30 20:57:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10884792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsinursa/pseuds/starsinursa
Summary: The smug bastard obviously think he’s won this argument, because there’s no way Dean is following him into a yoga class. The day Dean starts saluting the sun and humming ‘om’ under his breath like he’s part of some creepy hive mind like the Borg Collective, well, he might as well just start making his own potpourri and frequenting vegan bakeries, too.Not gonna happen.So yeah, Cas is right, damn him. There’s no way in hell Dean is following him into a yoga class. There’s no way. There’s no way  –- ahhh, fuck. Fuck it all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a shameless excuse to write about Dean being very, very bad at yoga, then turned into shameless feels about being family to each other (thank yoooou Season 12 ❤), then devolved into shameless hand-job porn. 
> 
> ...I am ashamed.
> 
> I'm also on [Tumblr](https://starsinursa.tumblr.com/)!

“Cas.”

Planting himself in front of the treadmill, Dean tries to catch Cas’ eyes.

“Cas. You can’t ignore me forever, man.”

...except apparently he can, because Castiel is one stubborn son of a bitch when he wants to be. He’s staring straight ahead at the wall with his mouth pressed in a thin line, doing his absolute best impression of pretending Dean doesn't exist, feet pounding steadily on the treadmill belt.

Ugh, just looking at him makes Dean feel exhausted. Jogging is the worst. Even if Cas does look stupidly good in jogging shorts.

“Cas.”

Not a glance.

“Castiel.”

Zero, zilch, goose egg.

“Caaaaas.”

Dean leans directly into Cas’ field of view so Cas has no choice but to look at him, but Cas, the big friggin’ baby, actually turns his head and pointedly stares at a new spot on the wall about one foot to Dean’s left.

Dean snorts. “Real mature, Cas.”

A muscle twitches minutely in Cas’ jaw, but other than that, there’s no indication that he even heard Dean.

“Fine,” Dean says, leaning against the treadmill and baring his teeth in a wide grin. “You’re right, you need to save your breath for running. I'll talk, you jog. Oh, what’s that? You’re sorry? Apology accepted, that was easy. Hmm? You're being an ass? You wanna change your name to Asstiel? Don't be so hard on yourself, buddy -“

Cas breaks.

“How did you find me, Dean?” he snaps, finally looking at Dean and squinting his eyes in a glare. 

“Are you serious? Dude, you’ve had the same schedule since freshman year. Six p.m. to seven p.m. is gym time, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, except for the third Friday of every month because you do that tutoring thing that’s supposed to look good on your resume or some shit. You’re not exactly hard to find.”

Cas huffs. “I managed to avoid you for two days.” 

“Uh, yeah, because I _let_ you. I was hoping you’d cool off and everything would blow over, but obviously that hasn’t happened yet.” He leaves the _‘because you hold a grudge worse than the freaky Japanese kid in that horror movie’_ part unsaid. He has a feeling it might not help his cause.

“I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

“Okay, one - that’s ridiculous, because I’m a delight. And b - you’ve had a stick up your ass for two friggin’ days now. You missed _‘Dr. Sexy’_ night, for chrissake,” Dean points out, trying not to sound like he’s actually pretty bummed about that. Thursday nights are always their Dr. Sexy nights. It’s a tradition: meet at Dean’s apartment, make crappy microwave popcorn, and mercilessly mock the latest episode. And Dean won’t admit it – any more than he'll admit he actually enjoys _‘Dr. Sexy’_ , and not in an ironic way - but watching the latest episode without Cas’ familiar presence on the end of the couch, and his snarky commentary filling in all the dramatic pauses and cheesy close-ups, had left Dean’s chest feeling…kind of gaping and empty . “So yeah, I’m done, we’re getting this shit straightened out.”

“I have a stick up _my_ \- ?” Cas’ raised voice carries across the gym, stirring a couple of people to glance their way. Cas ducks his head, mouth snapping shut with an embarrassed click, but he turns up the heat in his glare to the _smite_ intensity and pins Dean in his sights. 

It’s a glare that makes most people take a hasty step back, and to be honest, Dean’s a little alarmed – he hasn’t seen that particular glare leveled at him in years, not since the first few months of freshman year when they’d been total strangers crammed together in a tiny dorm room the size of a matchbox. 

Yeah, they’d definitely hated each other for the first few weeks. Dean hadn’t helped matters by blasting 80's rock when Cas was trying to study, or bringing noisy one-night stands back to their cramped dorm, but in his defense, Cas had been a major dick too, doing things like cranking up the thermostat until Dean was sweating his balls off or eating the last piece of pizza in the mini-fridge. And don't even get Dean started on that Dateline: NBC trenchcoat.

But they’ve come a long way in the last four years, and they’ve been through some shit together. Cas was there when Dean’s dad died, recycling beer bottles and bringing Dean’s homework back from his classes and watching Dean's favorite trashy movies with him. And Dean, well, he likes to think he’s responsible for introducing Cas to some semblance of a life. He took Cas to his first concert, taught him how to play pool during long evenings at The Roadhouse, and drags him home to the batshit-crazy Winchester household for every family holiday. Hell, he even pushed Cas into getting his first kiss, tucked into a cozy corner of a house party with a sophomore named Meg.

That last one is ironic, considering Dean came to the very jarring realization a few months ago - courtesy of his friend Charlie, a bottle of Jack Daniels, and a Mario-Cart tournament gone wrong - that he’s totally, ridiculously, stupidly _gone_ on his best friend.

Yeah, he’s fucked.

And he also really, really doesn’t like being on the receiving end of that particular glare again.

“ _You’re_ the one who got involved and made things worse, Dean,” Cas continues, voice quieter but still bristling. He's barely even short of breath, the unfairly fit bastard, but his forehead and arms are starting to shine with a damp sheen of sweat.

“Cas, I was trying to help -”

“I didn’t ask for your help. I don’t _need_ your help, Dean.”

Ouch, that stings. Cas really is mad. 

But Dean’s been on a low simmer for the past two days, and now he’s getting worked up too. “Yeah, well, maybe you should sometimes, instead of being such a fucking pushover -”

“ _Bite me_ , Dean.” 

Cas’ hand shoots out and slams down on the controls, making Dean jump, and the treadmill starts whining to a stop. In one smooth move that makes Dean a little envious, Cas steps off the side of the treadmill while the belt is still moving, snatches up his water bottle from the floor, and strides off before Dean can say another damn word.

Fuck, he’s terrible at this. That’s why Sammy’s the sensitive one. If you wanna cry about your feelings, you go to Sammy. If you wanna get drunk and bury your feelings under layers of denial and self-recrimination… well, Dean’s got the market cornered in that area.

He resists the urge to tear his fucking hair out and lopes after Cas instead. Those jogging shorts are a _sin_. Dean hates that Cas is mad at him, but fuck, he loves to watch him walk away. 

“Cas, hold up, you stubborn sonuva –“ 

He’s expecting Cas to head out to the parking lot, but he’s surprised when Cas takes a left past the vending machines and turns down the long hallway to the fitness classrooms instead. He makes a beeline into a room at the end. For the first few steps, Dean’s right on his heels, reaching out to grab Cas’ shoulder - then he takes a curious glance around the room, notices the checkerboard of yoga mats spread out on the floor, and backpedals like hellhounds themselves are after him. 

He stops in the doorway and glares at Cas, who flashes him a smirk and grabs a yoga mat from a plastic tub by the wall. 

Fuming, deliberating, Dean hesitates in the doorway. Everyone is starting to settle into seated positions on their mats and the instructor is fiddling with a stereo in the corner, turning up the sounds of a twangy acoustic guitar that Dean assumes is mood music, so the class is obviously about to start. Cas is unfurling his mat towards the back in one of the only open spots left, about as far across the room as he can possibly get from Dean.

The smug bastard obviously think he’s won this argument, because there’s no way Dean is following him into a yoga class. The day Dean starts saluting the sun and humming ‘om’ under his breath like he’s part of some creepy hive mind like the Borg Collective, well, he might as well just start making his own potpourri and frequenting vegan bakeries, too. Not gonna happen.

So yeah, Cas is right, damn him. There’s no way in hell Dean is following him into a yoga class. There’s no way. There’s no way –

\- ahhh, fuck. Fuck it all.

Ducking back through the doorway, he hotfoots it to the extra mats before he can change his mind, snatching up a blue one and winding his way to the back of the room towards Cas. He’s trying really hard not to think about how many strangers have dripped sweat all over this mat and it’s kind of grossing him out, so he distracts himself by taking a very visceral satisfaction in the stunned look on Cas’ face instead.

“You’re joking,” Cas murmurs.

Dean stakes out the empty space next to him and shakes out his mat as obnoxiously as possible, snapping it in the air.

“What?” He raises his eyebrows. “I can’t expand my horizons?”

“Unless ‘expanding your horizons’-" For fuck's sake, Cas actually does those stupid air-quotes with his fingers that make Dean feel torn between exasperation and affection, “- means trying new flavors of pie, not usually, no.”

Dean flips him off half-heartedly, toeing off his shoes and kicking them towards the wall. He leaves his socks on, because he is _not_ standing barefoot on that mat, and plops down. At least he’s wearing sweatpants instead of the jeans he’d almost thrown on before coming to find Cas, because he doesn’t relish the thought of stretching while wearing denim. He glances around the room and crosses his legs, copying how everyone else is sitting. Then he uncrosses them. Crosses them again. Tries to tug his feet up onto his thighs and stops immediately when his hip actually pops loud enough to hear, making Cas glance over at him in alarm. Uncrosses them. 

He’s still trying to find a position that doesn’t feel mildly-awkward-to-supremely-uncomfortable when Cas huffs, trying to muffle a laugh. Dean shoots him a dirty look.

“You should at least grab a block,” Castiel suggests, gesturing to another tub at the edge of the room. It looks like it's piled high with square foam blocks.

Dean has no idea what the blocks are for, but he feels a little insulted by whatever Castiel is implying. 

“I don’t need a friggin’ block.” He crosses his legs once more, decisively, and doesn’t unfold them. “Let’s do this.”


	2. Chapter 2

He should have grabbed a fucking block.

There’s only a couple of other people in class using them – okay, senior citizens mostly - but the blocks look really helpful for the sorry inflexible suckers having a hard time even touching their toes.

Suckers like Dean. __

His hamstrings are burning and they’re only ten minutes into the class. They’re not even to the hard stuff yet, they’re doing some pansy-ass position called ‘forward fold’, which is basically just leaning over and touching their toes, except here’s the thing: Dean is not flexible. Perfectly crafted muscles, sure. Nimble, cat-like reflexes, absolutely. But flexible… he’s got bowlegs, okay? Nature or God or what-the-fuck-ever obviously did not intend for him to touch his toes, and up until this point, he was a-okay with that.

He’s tried surreptitiously bending his knees a couple of times, but the instructor keeps catching him and correcting him, chiding him about proper form so he doesn't strain his ligaments or some shit. When she’s not correcting stances or leading them through the poses at the front of the class, she’s counting them through the proper rhythm of inhaling and exhaling, but Dean can’t get the damn timing down right. What the fuck does _‘breathe with your stomach and not your chest’_ even mean? Breathing is breathing, isn’t it?

They finally transition to downward dog, thank Jesus, because he gets to put some weight on his arms and give his legs a break. His relief lasts for about two seconds until his socks start slowly sliding on the mat and his t-shirt succumbs to gravity, slipping forward over his back and hanging in his face. He tugs it back into place a one hand, swaying as he tries to stay balanced, but the damn thing falls forward again as soon as he has both hands back on the floor.

Normally he’s not shy about something as simple as going shirtless, but c’mon, nobody looks good bent nearly in half. Well, except Cas, but the dude’s a freak of nature and also wearing some kind of dri-fit shirt that conveniently doesn’t slide forward and also sticks to him in all the best places. Dean, on the other hand, is starting to regret those extra slices of pie after all. 

He deliberates tucking the bottom of his shirt into his pants so it’ll stay in place, decides it’s not really the look he wants to give off, and tries sucking in his stomach a little instead. That just fucks up his breathing again, so he grinds his teeth and waits impatiently to move onto the next pose.

There’s movement at the corner of his eye and he catches Cas subtly shaking his head, lips pressed together to hold back another laugh.

“Shut up,” Dean mutters, but there’s no heat in it because Cas laughing at him is still miles better than Cas ignoring him.

"If you can't handle it, Dean, maybe you should just go into child's pose," Cas suggests innocently.

"I'm not going into friggin' child's pose. I can handle it. See? Totally handling it."

Rolling his eyes, Cas looks away from him and back down at his mat, sighing a long breath through his nose. Dean's just about to comment - _'dude, what're you sighing at me for?'_ \- when he realizes Cas is just doing that breathing thing.

He's obviously got the trick of it, breathing slowly in a way that makes his whole body flex with just a hint of restrained movement, and Dean's a little jealous. Cas just makes it look so natural. He doesn't even look exerted, he looks like he could take a fucking nap right there in downward dog, except for one bead of sweat trickling along his hairline, moving the wrong way down his face as his head hangs between his arms. Dean's eyes track it automatically and suddenly his mouth is suddenly bone-dry. He doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to do anything more than lean over and lick that bead of sweat from Cas’ skin. He resists the urge to lick his lips and yanks his gaze away instead, down to Cas' mat. The muscles in Cas' arms are tense with the effort of holding his weight on his hands, long fingers splayed on the mat, broad palms pressing down, but god, what would those hands feel like on Dean’s skin instead, or his thumb pressing against Dean's bottom lip -

When he notices Cas watching him curiously, blue eyes narrowed, Dean realizes with a jolt that he’s been staring. Fuck. There’s a mortified flush creeping up the back of his neck as he jerks his gaze away and glares down at the mat between his hands. He really needs to think about something else anyways, because the last thing he needs to do is pop a boner in the middle of a yoga class, especially while wearing sweatpants that won’t do a damn thing to hide it. 

...even if Cas does look fucking edible with his hair sweaty and sticking up in every direction. Even if Dean can see the muscles in his thighs flexing -

Fuck, safe thoughts, safe thoughts. He glances around the room, looking for anything to distract him from imagining what it would feel like to have those thighs hooked over his shoulders, Cas flat on his back -

A somewhat hysterical chuckle threatens to burble up in his throat, because there is literally nothing to look at right now except for rows and rows of asses.

Humor is good, though. Humor is safe.

“Hey, Cas." His voice is hushed, loud enough only for Cas to hear him. "What do we do if someone in front of us had burritos for lunch?”

Sure enough, just what he's counting on, Cas shoots him an exasperated _'why-are-we-even-friends?'_ look, and Dean stifles a relieved laugh as some of the tension bleeds out of him. This is good, this is normal. This is him and Cas.

“Screw you, I’m hilarious," he inists. Sammy definitely would’ve laughed.

“Sam doesn't think you're funny either,” Cas mutters. 

…and that’s just eerie as shit. Not for the first time, Dean wonders if Cas is actually psychic, or if he just knows Dean so well by this point that he can literally guess what he’s thinking. Which, yeah, that’s almost scarier.

At the front of class, the instructor starts flowing into the newest pose and talking them through it. Cas, the bendy bastard, moves through that shit effortlessly like he’s Ghandi or something, shoulder blades rolling as he sinks down with his chest hovering above the mat.

Dean mimics him, and immediately he can tell this pose is going to wreak havoc on his abs. It feels like he’s getting ready to do a push-up, but not quite following through. Instead, he's just...stuck, in some weird half-way position with his arms bent at his sides, simultaneously lowering him towards the ground but still keeping his chest a few inches above the mat. 

He does not like this pose one bit.

“This isn’t yoga, this is core work,” he hisses at Castiel. “This ‘chinchilla’ thing is straight-up _planking_. No one said anything about planking.” 

“Chaturanga,” Cas corrects in a whisper.

“Chimichanga?”

“Chaturanga.”

“…chitty-chitty bang-bang?”

…okay, Dean’s just fucking with him. It’s not that hard to say -

 _“Chaturanga_ ,” Cas growls, but his mouth is twitching with the effort of restraining a smile. It makes Dean grin in response, feeling a little lighter.

For a few minutes, he’s too distracted to try talking to Cas again, trying not to pull a muscle or break his back when he curves his spine into something called ‘upward-facing dog’, then hauls his ass back into downward dog again, and finally swings a leg forward between his hands – he is not meant to move like that – and hoists himself up into some kind of ‘warrior’ position.

Huh. This pose actually isn’t too bad. At least he’s upright, the blood isn’t pooling in his head, and all of his clothes are staying where they’re supposed to be. It’s easier to breathe in this position, and definitely easier to talk.

Well, at least Cas is acknowledging his existence now, and Dean's even managed to coax a couple of reluctant smiles out of him, so now's as good a time as any.

He clears his throat awkwardly. “Listen, Cas. I know you want me to say I’m sorry –“

“That’s because you _should_ say you’re sorry,” Cas interrupts in a whisper.

Dean huffs. God forbid Cas make this easy, the asshole.

“Cas, I was just –“

“Dean, what was the one thing I asked you to do before Ishim arrived?”

“Okay, but I was just – “

“Dean.”

“But I – “

_“Dean.”_

He growls in annoyance and clenches his teeth. “…stay out of it.”

“And what did you do?”

“Okay, but I was only – “

“Dean.”

“…not stay out of it,” he mutters mutinously.

Cas looks vindicated. “Exactly.”

Hell no, Dean is not relinquishing this point without a fight. 

“But he was a douchebag, Cas!”

“He’s my cousin,” Castiel says, patiently, like that should make everything all right, but it doesn’t, not even close.

“I don't give a flying fuck,” Dean scoffs. “Some cousin you haven’t seen in years comes around and you’re just gonna bend over and let him treat you like shit? God, it was almost as bad as the time your aunt and uncle came to visit.” Now _that_ had been a miserable week. Castiel’s Aunt Noami and Uncle Zachariah are some of the worst people on the planet, as far as Dean's concerned. He honestly doesn’t know how Cas could be related to such toxic people.

“I appreciate the fact you were trying to look out for me, Dean, but I don’t have much family anymore. They’re all I have left,” Cas adds. He’s too fucking calm about this - like it’s no big deal when members of his own family walk all over him, like he’s used to it, like it’s okay as long as he gets to be a part of something, no matter how badly he’s treated. It makes Dean boil with rage; it makes him want to grab Castiel and shake some sense into him. 

“Bullshit, Cas! Family -”

The woman in front of them turns to glare over her shoulder, miming a silent ‘shhh!’ with pursed lips.

Dean takes a steadying breath, banks down some of his anger, and tries again. “Family –“

The instructor is walking around the classroom again, correcting poses, but Dean hasn’t been paying the slightest bit of attention to what she’s doing. Hell, he may have forgotten she even existed, but he nearly jumps out of his skin when her hand touches his leg, right above his knee.

“Be careful not to overextend your knee,” the instructor prompts him, giving his knee another brief, nudging touch. “Keep your knee directly above your ankle, your shin should be straight and completely perpendicular to the floor.”

“Uh. Okay.” Dean wriggles his foot forward a couple of inches to get his ankle in line with his knee.

“Perfect.” The instructor smiles at him then, showing a flash of straight white teeth.

It takes Dean an embarrassingly long moment to recognize that smile as an _interested_ smile.

Okay, so he may be hung up on his best friend like a fucking loser, but he’s not blind. The instructor is smokin’ hot – long dark hair, liquid brown eyes – and normally he’d be down for some harmless flirting, probably smiling back or dropping a cheesy one-liner designed to make her laugh, but right now it’s more inconvenient than anything. He’s antsy to keep talking to Cas, and also perplexed by the sudden icy displeasure rolling off his best friend in waves. It’s weird, because Cas had finally been talking to him and thawing out. Dean wishes impatiently she’d move on to the next person so he can finish his conversation with Cas before the guy decides to clam up again.

Finally she does, moving to help one of the senior citizens by demonstrating a modified pose that’s supposed to be less strenuous or something blah blah blah, Dean’s not really listening, because he immediately turns back to Cas.

“Family don’t end with blood, but it don’t start with blood either, Cas,” he says firmly. “Family doesn’t come in and treat you like shit just because they can. And don’t you dare gimme that crap about you not having any family, because you’ve got me and Sam and Mom, she calls you one of her kids, for chrissake, and you've got Bobby and even Ellen and Jo, too. So I’m sorry you’re pissed at me, because the last two days have royally sucked, but I’m not sorry about telling that douchebag to go fuck himself, because I meant it and I’d say it again.”

He blows out a noisy breath, some of his anger bleeding away now that the words are out, like poison being drawn from a wound. There’s a little bit of relief in having said his piece, getting the words out there and being done with them, no matter what Cas says.

…okay, that’s bullshit, he really does care what Cas says.

But Cas isn't saying anything. When Dean risks a glance at his face, Cas looks thoughtful, eyebrows pinched together in a serious expression that means he’s definitely overthinking something.

Dean's just about to force a laugh and tell him _'don't strain yourself'_ when Cas looks at him.

“…thank you, Dean,” he says finally, quietly. 

And….that’s it. It’s almost a little anticlimactic. But then Cas smiles a soft smile that curves his lips and crinkles at the corners of his blue eyes and makes Dean feel like his heart’s being squeezed inside his chest.

He…he should probably get that checked out. Probably his blood pressure or something. Yeah.

He can’t help the giddy grin that splits his face, doesn’t even really care. “Great. Can we stop hashing this out and go back to being best friends now? Better yet, can we get the fuck out of this class?”

The smile on Cas’ face falters and he looks hesitant. “That would be incredibly rude…”

The instructor is on the move again and Dean glances over, tracking her movements warily, because he does not want to be taken by surprise again. She's not in a hurry, pausing to help each person and providing gentle corrections or encouragement, but she’s definitely making her slow way towards them at the back of the class again. 

Cas follows his gaze and frowns sharply.

“…but yes, let’s go.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Oh, thank god,” Dean groans as soon as they’re back in the hallway, gently pulling the door shut behind them. 

He knows he should feel like an asshole for walking out in the middle of the class - even if they had tried to leave quietly and Dean had grimaced apologetically to the instructor, mouthing ‘Sorry, family emergency!’ as they tiptoed past - but he can’t seem to care. He’s too pleased at having things back to normal between him and Cas, and also pretty relieved at managing to escape before he broke his damn neck trying to do a headstand or something.

“I need to grab my bag out of the locker room,” Castiel says, and Dean’s happy enough to walk there with him, catching him up on the shit that happened over the past two days.

The locker room is empty when they enter, although there’s a gym bag sitting open on a bench and a couple of towels on the floor. Dean leans a shoulder against the lockers and waits while Cas digs out his bag.

“- so then Dr. Piccolo just storms into the O.R. right in the middle of this poor bastard’s brain surgery and tells Dr. Sexy –“

“Dean!” Castiel interrupts him, looking affronted. "Spoilers!"

“That’s what you get for missing ‘Dr. Sexy’ night," Dean snipes. He's not sympathetic in the least. "Serves you right, giving me the cold shoulder for two days like you’re friggin’ Elsa.”

Cas blinks at him, and Dean feels a flush start creeping up the back of his neck.

“It was, uh… the remote was out of reach and I, uh... I was, y'know, too lazy to get off the couch and change the channel...”

“I see,” Cas says, but he's smirking and wearing this annoying, _knowing_ look that indicates he thinks Dean is full of shit.

Dean huffs and shoves Cas on the shoulder. “Shut up. Let’s go grab a burger at The Roadhouse or something, I’m starving.”

Cas snatches at his wrist reflexively, gripping it to prevent himself from being pushed backwards. His fingers are warm on Dean’s skin where they circle around his wrist. Dean’s not a small guy by any means and his bone structure reflects that; most people aren’t able to fully close their fingers around Dean’s wrists, but Cas doesn’t seem to have any trouble. Dean's about to laugh it off and shake his wrist out of Cas' grip when Cas' thumb moves slightly, brushing the sensitive inside of Dean’s wrist, and he freezes with the chuckle dying in his throat. 

“Cas?”

He isn't looking at Dean, staring down at the floor instead like he’s embarrassed. Dean’s skin is tingling where Cas is touching him, his heartbeat stuttering behind his ribs, and as much as he doesn’t want Castiel to ever let go, he’s got his own sanity to worry about right now and he’s about to go crazy. When Dean gives an experimental tug of his wrist, it seems to spur Cas on - he doesn’t let go, but he does finally look up, eyes bright and determined.

“You’re my family too. I’m sorry, I wasn't sure how to say it, but I just – I want you to know, knowing you, it’s… it’s been the best part of my life. And I do think of you as my family too.” He pauses. “All of you. I’m very…honored, to be considered a part your family. Thank you.”

…Christ on a craker, what the hell is Dean supposed to say to that? His throat feels scratchy when he swallows and Cas is just _standing_ there, looking painfully earnest and totally fucking adorable, staring at Dean like he’s the goddamn sunrise. It makes a pleasant heat blossom low in his stomach, and at the same time, it makes him feel a little nauseous because no one's ever looked at him like that before.

He clears his throat weakly. “Uh, yeah. ‘course, Cas.”

Dean is a cowardly piece of shit. He’s rooted to the spot and doesn’t think he could move if he wanted to – although he’s not sure if he'd be moving towards Cas or away from him. Cas does that stupid little head tilt that makes him look like an owl, brow furrowing in that same expression that means he’s thinking way too hard about something, trying to solve some puzzle, trying to force something to make sense. The corners of his lips purse in a slight frown and Dean glances at them automatically, eyes drawn like a magnet.

Absently, Dean licks his lips.

It’s impossible to tell who moves first, but suddenly they’re kissing, and it’s clumsy and a little desperate and a thousand times better than he’s ever imagined it. Which he has. A lot.

There’s a rasp of stubble against his own jaw and he groans against Cas’ mouth, peppering Cas’ lips with kisses. He kisses him, persistent, teasing, and Cas huffs a small gasp and opens his mouth to Dean’s tongue, and fuck, Dean does not need told twice.

There's a thud when Cas drops his gym bag to the floor, releasing the strap carelessly so he can reach up and twist his hand in the front of Dean's shirt. The other hand lets go of Dean’s wrist and slides up to grip the back of his neck, pulling him closer, and then Cas is pushing him backwards. Dean staggers in surprise, nearly losing his balance, but Cas holds him up. His back hits the bathroom counter and Cas swoops in to kiss him again, cupping Dean’s face in both hands. Dean can sense that restrained energy in him again, Cas is practically vibrating with it, and he kisses Dean hard and fervent like he’ll take anything that Dean’s willing to offer.

Which is, yeah. Everything. 

Dean groans again when Cas gently nips his bottom lip, and returns the favor by sucking on Cas’ tongue until Cas is practically panting into his mouth. Cas pulls back a little then, pressing their foreheads together and breathing in harsh puffs against Dean’s face. Suddenly he takes a step back and… he’s gone, leaving Dean feeling confused and oddly abandoned. Cas is striding towards the locker room door, and for one horrible, sickening moment, Dean is convinced he’s going to walk through it – yank the door open and keep going, out of the gym, out of Dean’s life, because somehow he’s fucked it up already and this is why Dean never should have been stupid enough to risk their friendship, fucking _stupid_ -

His heart is hammering in his throat, practically choking him, when Cas stops in front of the door, reaches up, and twists the lock with a heavy click. 

Then Cas is back, grabbing his face to kiss him again and crowding him up against the counter. Dean feels lightheaded with the sudden relief that sweeps through him. Cas lets go of his face and slides his hands down Dean’s chest, over his sweaty t-shirt, before wrapping his arms around him. His broad palms glide down Dean’s back, palm briefly over his ass, and then Cas grips the backs of Dean’s thighs and _hoists_ him up onto the counter in one smooth motion – and holy undiscovered kinks, Batman, if that isn’t the hottest fucking thing to ever happen in Dean’s life. If his dick hadn’t been hard as a rock before this, it sure as hell is now.

Immediately taking advantage of the open space between Dean’s legs, Cas moves between them and settles his hands on Dean’s knees as he kisses him. They spend another few moments like that, learning the taste of each other’s mouths, until Cas drops his head and presses open mouthed kisses along the line of Dean’s jaw, under his ear, down his neck. Each kiss makes Dean twitch and sigh.

“Ah, fuck, Cas…”

He grunts in pleased surprise when Cas bites his neck, digging his fingers into Cas' arms and pulling him closer. Cas comes willingly, responding to Dean's encouragement, and holy shit, he bites _hard_. Dean whimpers, pleasure and pain sparking through him, and immediately the pressure from Cas’ teeth eases. Kisses are pressed to his neck and Cas touches his tongue against Dean’s skin to ease the sting, sucking softly.

“Jesus Christ, Cas,” Dean breathes. “Possessive much?”

He means it as a joke, tone teasing, but if he’s expecting Cas to blush or duck his head in embarrassment, he’s dead wrong.

“Yes,” Cas growls, still mouthing at his neck, and yep, Dean stands corrected: Cas being possessive? _This_ is officially the hottest thing that’s ever happened in his life. 

“I, uh –“ His thoughts scatter when Cas’ hands squeeze his knees and start sliding up. “- I think I can live with that –“

Cas’ hands are pulling him apart at the seams, and the asshole hasn’t even touched Dean’s dick yet. His fingers are digging into the outside of Dean’s thighs, massaging a hard line as he drags his palms up, but his thumbs are rubbing small gentle circles against the insides of Dean's thighs. When Cas slides his thumbs along the juncture of Dean’s thighs, Dean’s dick literally jumps.

He needs their pants off, like fuckin’ yesterday.

“Jesus, Cas, wanna touch you so bad -” 

He grinds his hips forward to make his point. He can feel Cas’ hard dick, tenting his jogging shorts obscenely, and Dean wriggles a hand between them. Pressing his palm over the bulge of Cas’ dick, he’s rewarded when Cas gasps lowly against his throat, hips jerking.

“Dean –“

Dean grins and fits his hand more securely over the swell of Cas’ cock, squeezing, molding his palm to explore the shape of his erection. Of course Cas is packing, and Dean shifts on his ass on the hard countertop, wishing fervently they had more time and were somewhere else, anywhere else, where Cas could actually bend him over and open him up and fuck him –

They're both sweaty, wearing gross work-out clothes, and Dean literally could not care less; the sharp, intoxicating scent of Cas' sweat is the best thing in the world because it's Cas, it's _Cas_. Slipping his fingers into the top of Cas’ shorts, he yanks them down with a few impatient tugs, just far enough down Cas’ thighs to let his cock spring free. He pauses for a moment to appreciate the fact that Cas isn’t wearing any underwear, and that’s…pretty hot, and then he takes Cas' dick in his hand.

He can’t help it - he wants to see, _has_ to see. Leaning back just far enough so he can glance down between them, he hungrily takes in the sight of Cas’ cock, hot and heavy in his hand, flushed red with arousal. There's a drop of precome pearling at the tip and he swipes his thumb through it, spreading it across the crown of Cas’ cock. The pad of his thumb rubs along the underside of the head of Cas' dick, and Cas gasps roughly and jerks his hips again.

Cas is manhandling Dean suddenly, leaning forward and snagging the top of Dean’s sweatpants, pulling them down insistently.

“Fuck, yes,” Dean agrees. Reluctantly he lets go of Cas' cock so that he can lean back and shift his hips and ass, helping Cas pull his sweats and boxers until they’re bunched at his thighs where he’s sitting on the counter. His dick bobs free and the cooler air against it makes him shiver, but the first touch of Cas’ hand on his dick is like fire, branding him, searing through his nerves. 

He groans, tipping his head back, and starts rolling his hips in slow, stunted circles, as much as he can move while sitting. Cas is staring at him – not at his dick, like Dean had done, but at _him_ , at his face. Those blue eyes are fixed on him, studying his face with an intensity Dean’s only ever come to associate with Cas, looking at him like… like he’s something reverent.

An embarrassed flush is prickling up his neck, and he tugs Cas back into a kiss so he’ll stop scrutinizing him. Cas comes willingly, slotting their mouths together, and Dean hums happily against his lips. Hooking his heels around the backs of Cas’ legs, he scoots forward enough to slide their cocks together, and the first touch of Cas’ hot dick against his own rips a groan from his throat. He wraps a hand around them both, starting a rhythm to jerk them together, but slows his hand a little when Cas starts thrusting against him. 

Cas breaks away from the kiss, gasping. “Dean –“

Hearing Cas say his name makes tendrils of possessive satisfaction unfurl in Dean's chest, and he growls. “Fuck, yes. Say it, Cas.”

With a groan, Cas complies, dropping his head to Dean’s shoulder and murmuring a hoarse, whispered litany of “Please, Dean, Dean, please, _Dean_ –“ against his neck.

There’s an electric tension coiling in Dean’s muscles and tightening in the pit of his stomach. His hand on their dicks is rough and a little dry, he wishes he had some lube to ease the friction instead of just precome, but it’s still awesome. He’s sitting on the counter in a fucking gym bathroom, jacking their dicks in his hand like they’re a couple of impatient, horny teenagers, and it’s fucking perfect.

Cas’ arms are tucked under Dean's armpits and wrapped up his back, gripping his shoulders tightly, but Cas brings up a hand suddenly and snakes it into the sweaty hair at the back of Dean’s head. He runs his fingers through it once, twice, then grips it tight in his fist and pulls. It’s not hard enough to hurt, but enough to tug Dean’s head back and make his scalp tingle and bare his throat so Cas can bite at his neck again – 

“Ahh- fuck, _Cas_ –“

\- and that’s it, he’s done. His legs clamp around Cas’ hips like a vise, heels digging into the back of Cas’ thighs, and his back arches as his spine goes as tight as a bowstring.  
All of his muscles clench and seize, impossibly tight, and then he’s coming in short, hot spurts, coating his own hand and slicking both of their cocks in his come -

Cas is pressing frantic kisses against Dean’s neck, still gripping Dean’s hair tightly, and then he’s coming too. Dean can feel it, Cas’ dick surging in his hand and come dripping over his fingers. Cas is growling – no, practically whining – something under his breath, and it takes a second for Dean to realize that it’s still his name, and fuck, that’s hot. Dean’s cock jumps again valiantly, gives one final pulse of come, and then the tension starts leaking out of his back like water circling the drain, slowly slumping him in place.

The hand in his hair loosens. Dean tips his head to the side and lets it loll against Cas’. They’re both panting quietly. Cas’ fingers start carding through his sweaty hair again and it feels good – no, fucking great – so he lets his eyes flutter shut, just for a second, while his heartbeat settles back to a normal rate.

Finally he feels Cas start to pull away and Dean hesitantly lets him go, straightening up. Cas pulls back just far away to look at him, searching his face, and Dean wonders what the fuck he’s supposed to say now.

“Um. That was cool,” is what he settles on, voice a little raspy, and it startles Cas into a laugh – an honest-to-god, eyes crinkled, gums showing kind of laugh, the kind of laugh Dean doesn’t hear nearly often enough but would like to hear a hell of a lot more.

“Very...cool,” Cas agrees, still smiling. Then he glances down between them and makes a disgruntled noise. Dean looks down too, making a face at the mess on his hand and on his shirt and even dripped onto his sweatpants –

“Jesus Christ, it’s fucking everywhere!”

Cas laughs again, and Dean stares at him in horror.

“How the fuck did you not get any on _you_?” This definitely doesn’t seem fair.

Cas leans over towards the wall and grabs some paper towels from the dispenser. He offers some of Dean, who takes them gratefully and wipes off his hands. He eases down off the counter, tucking his softening dick back in his sweatpants, while Cas cleans himself up and pulls up his own shorts. 

Dean's clothes… his clothes are a lost cause, there's no two ways about it. Jesus Christ, he really is a fucking mess. How the hell is he supposed to waltz back out into the gym with jizz all over him like he's been rolling around on the bathroom floor of some seedy truck-stop –

“Here, Dean,” Cas says, picking up his forgotten gym bag from the floor. He digs through it for a moment, comes up with an extra shirt and a pair of running shorts, and offers them to Dean. Dean raises his eyebrows.

“Dude, how many years have we known each other? You know I don't do shorts.”

Cas shrugs, a smirk playing on his lips. “Unless you want to walk through the gym like that- ?”

“Gimme those,” Dean sighs, snatching the clothes out of Cas’ hands. He pauses for a second, wondering if he’s just supposed to strip naked here in front of Cas – it’s not like Dean just jacked them both off or anything, Cas seeing him change should be no fuckin’ deal, but where the hell do they go from here? What if things are weird between them? What if –

He pulls his shirt off over in his head in one defiant, annoyed motion, trying to stomp down on rampant flow of thoughts tumbling through his mind. There’s plenty of time to worry about that shit later, and he’s sure he will, but right now he needs to get changed so they can get the fuck out of this locker room before they get caught. They’ve been locked in here way too long anyways, it’s a miracle no one has come banging on the door –

Castiel watches as he changes, utterly shameless and openly curious, eyeing each new part of Dean’s body that he bares. Dean’s dick gives an interested twitch – round two? – but he curtails those thoughts too, before he starts getting hard again and has to walk through the gym with a woody in jogging shorts. He's already learned thanks to Cas that gym shorts don't hide a damn thing, they're worse than sweatpants by far. He balls up his discarded clothes so the gross wet spots are on the insides and shoves them into Cas’ gym bag when he holds it out to Dean.

And then…they look at each other. A spike of anxiety flares through him again. He wants to ask what Cas is thinking, if this was a one time thing, if Cas regrets it -

Once again, Cas must be psychic or just know exactly what paranoid thoughts Dean’s thinking, because he steps close and brings a hand up to cup Dean’s jaw, pulling him in. The kiss Cas brushes against his lips is soft and maybe a little unsure.

“I’ve…wanted to do this for a long time,” Cas admits, and he sounds hesitant, like he's worried what _Dean's_ reaction will be -

The breath Dean’s been holding whooshes out of him in a rush. He grins, feeling like a thundercloud has been lifted from above his head, feeling...hopeful. 

“Yeah, Cas. Me too.”

Cas beams and kisses him again, more sure but still gentle, but Dean presses into it, kissing him hard. He darts his tongue out to taste along the swell of Cas’ bottom lip, pulling it playfully between his teeth.

“We need to go,” Cas says, pushing him back. “Now.”

Dean furrows his brow, confused. “What? Why the rush all of a sudden?”

“You drove the Impala here, right?”

“Uh, yeah? When have I ever gone anywhere without my Baby?”

“Good.” Cas smiles, but it’s a strange, predatory smile that Dean’s never seen before. He thinks – no, _knows_ – it's going to mean good things for him. “Because you have no idea how many times I’ve fantasized about sucking your dick in the backseat of that car.”


End file.
